


I leave the room smiling.

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxious Enjolras, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oh, Pining Enjolras, Sick Enjolras, Sickfic, combeferre is good enjolras is sick and grantaire isn't there, enjolras misses grantaire a lot okay, no idea what else to tag this, there is some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:57:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11300574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: Grantaire is gone for a month when things start to crack. As with most things, Combeferre knows, it starts with something innocuous.In the case of Enjolras, it’s a sneeze.





	I leave the room smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh got this idea from toosicktoocare (@tumblr) her sickfics give me life. sorry for being like not around at all... even when it's not semester MIT kicks my ass.

Grantaire is gone for a month when things start to crack. As with most things, Combeferre knows, it starts with something innocuous. 

In the case of Enjolras, it’s a sneeze.

It’s not even Enjolras that sneezes, but Combeferre should have known. Enjolras, as much as he’s the person who will rush across town to pick you up from work or school when you’re ill, and will stay with you until you’re feeling better, he isn’t known for the strength of his own immune system. It’s why Combeferre has banned Enjolras from picking him up at work, because god knows what Enjolras would manage to pick up from the hospital.

So, in a way, it starts with Marius.

It’s a Thursday, so it’s meeting night at the Musain. They aren’t gearing up for a protest or march or anything, but they are watching a livestream of a gallery in London unveiling Grantaire’s new collection. Enjolras feels that sharp pain in his chest that happens whenever he thinks about his boyfriend. It feels similar to the way coming home after freshman year of college feels, like he’s inexplicably lost a part of himself, when where he is doesn’t feel like home anymore. 

Grantaire is in a different country each week, living his dream. 

Enjolras is… here. 

He doesn’t have time to be thinking like this. He’s defending his dissertation in a matter of months, and he’s not done writing it. There are more rounds of experiments to be done, and they _need_ to go well. It doesn’t help that he needs to collaborate with Marius, because Enjolras is convinced that Bossuet’s luck has rubbed off on Marius, at least in the lab. 

Which is why Enjolras is crammed into Marius’s impossibly cluttered and tiny car, driving to the Musain already half an hour late. 

They’re just turning the last corner when Marius sneezes.

And then again.

Enjolras doesn’t think much of it, and neither does Marius. They enter the Musain, and before Enjolras can think Courfeyrac has Enjolras’s coat off and has pressed a beer into his hand. 

“You’ve been running late lately,” Combeferre says, frowning a little. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Coming straight from lab. Caught a ride with Marius, actually,” Enjolras shrugs it off. But Combeferre has known him longer than anyone (except for Courfeyrac, but even then it’s a tie), so he knows that this is always the start of something. And that something is usually a work bender that ends up with Enjolras collapsing at four in the morning, delirious with exhaustion. 

“So that’s a no. Luckily for you, I’ve got a wide selection of granola bars in my backpack. Pick your poison.” Combeferre’s voice leaves no room for argument. 

“Nature Valley. Always.” It’s Enjolras’s best attempt at normality, and it works, to some degree. Usually, the harder Enjolras fights, the more he’s hiding. Someday, Combeferre hopes that when something is wrong, Enjolras will just come to _someone_ for help; he doesn’t even care if it’s him. There just has to be a day when someone won’t have to fight tooth and nail to find out what’s bothering him. 

“Should have known. You coming to trivia tonight?” he asks, and Enjolras knows that Combeferre is preparing for a long game of mental chess. It’s Enjolras’s move: if he says no, it only furthers whatever ridiculous worry has snaked its way into Combeferre’s ribcage, if he says yes, it’s hours more pretending he isn’t utterly exhausted by everything, pretending that he doesn’t miss R so much it hurts. 

“Think I’m going to take a pass. It’s been a long week in lab,” Enjolras says. That’s the right answer… right? It shows he’s engaging in “self care”, or whatever buzzwords Combeferre brings up during their frustrating arguments about all of this. 

“Yeah, that’s cool. Get some rest,” Combeferre says, with a gentle smile. 

Minutes later, Enjolras begins the meeting. It’s an easy one, mostly a recap of their involvement in the city’s Pride parade the previous weekend. It almost feels like nothing is wrong.

But then Enjolras goes home, almost immediately collapsing on the sofa, face pressed into the cushion. He’s asleep in seconds.

:: ::

Enjolras wakes up slowly. His throat feels scratchy, and his forehead throbs in a way that lets him know a headache is brewing. His phone is buzzing next to his face. Clumsily, Enjolras picks it up.

“Hullo?” he says, voice thick with sleep. 

“Hey.” Immediately, Enjolras feels his insides relax. All it takes is one word from Grantaire, and it all fades away. “Sorry that it’s been a few days. I’ve been working on something new, and--”

“It’s fine, R. How are the showings going?” Enjolras asks, pressing himself into an upright position. He can’t help the stupid grin that’s spreading across his face. 

“They’re going. I can never tell if people are just being nice because I’m standing right there or if they’re genuinely interested.” Enjolras knows that doubt, knows what happens if Grantaire lets it take root, make a home in his brain.

“Bullshit. It’s because you’re amazing,” he says, and he just hears Grantaire sigh. But he doesn’t argue. 

“How are things there, E? Dissertation coming along okay?” That’s Grantaire for “I feel super guilty about leaving you for this long I will even listen to you rant about chemistry even though I don’t understand it.” 

“Yeah. I forgot how much shit happens whenever Marius is involved. But you’re working on something new?” Enjolras says. He’s too tired to talk about chemistry right now, but he will listen to Grantaire ramble about stroke technique and sketching and everything else that goes into creating his masterpieces.

“I think it could be really good. It’s just… I need to focus on it. And between this and all of the showings and stuff… shit, I feel terrible for even asking this, but do you think I could go off the grid for the next week or so? Just until I finish the piece.” Enjolras can hear the anxiety and guilt and fear in his boyfriend’s voice, and he shouldn’t feel any of that. This is his dream, and if it means they don’t talk for two weeks… they’ve been through worse. 

“Of course, R. I understand,” Enjolras says, letting the love and pride he feels whenever he thinks about R’s art swell through his voice. Grantaire lets out a sigh of relief.

“I’ll still have my phone, for emergencies and such, don’t worry. Thank you so much, E. I miss you so much.”

“I miss you, too. Now go live your dream,” Enjolras says. 

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

After the line goes dead, something in Enjolras’s throat catches and he starts coughing. 

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

:: ::

The next week is a blur for Enjolras. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him; he’s always tired, he keeps coughing, and his headache is on the verge of a full-blown migraine.

It’s stupid, that he’s letting how much he misses his boyfriend manifest like this. He knows, he knows that if he tells Combeferre or Courfeyrac how he’s feeling, they would call Grantaire. And Enjolras can’t let this stupid, irrational, crushing loneliness ruin any of this for Grantaire. It isn’t fair to him, not when he’s worked so hard and for so long for this opportunity.

So Enjolras withdraws. He throws himself into his experiments, the subsequent data workup, into planning more things for Les Amis, stays up late and drinks too much coffee and does everything he can so that he doesn’t focus on how much this all hurts. It isn’t fair to R, just like it isn’t fair to Courfeyrac or Combeferre to put this on them. 

But Enjolras doesn’t notice his own health as it slowly deteriorates. Combeferre does, notes with worry every time Enjolras cuts off in the middle of a speech because of coughs that just get deeper and deeper, frowns at the paleness of his skin and and the circles under his eyes. He doesn’t want to intervene, just yet, for the risk of pushing Enjolras away further. 

But the intervention is coming soon.

:: ::

Enjolras tosses and turns the entire night. He feels terrible. His head is pounding against his skull, he can’t seem to get cool, and each coughs rips more painfully through his chest than the previous one.

All Enjolras wants to do is roll over and call R, because talking to Grantaire always makes him feel better.

Instead, Enjolras ends up curled up around a toilet at 2 a.m., cough syrup coating his throat and coloring the toilet an unnatural shade of pink. He reaches for the thermometer, knocking over who knows how much Combeferre-organized medications, and puts it between his lips with shaking hands.

102\. 

That’s nothing. Enjolras has no reason to be feeling this terrible, but before he knows it he’s coughing and then he’s vomiting again, throat burning and chest constricting mercilessly. 

Somehow, Enjolras makes it back to bed.

:: ::

“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” Courfeyrac asks, as Enjolras exits lab. In an instant, Marius and the other grad student in the lab disappear.

“Sure. Is something wrong?” Enjolras asks, taking in Courfeyrac’s fidgeting hands and worried wrinkles between his eyebrows. 

Courfeyrac sighs, because Enjolras’s voice is so hoarse, like he’d been up coughing all night. “Are you okay? You sound tired.” 

Enjolras takes this chance to cough harshly into his arm. “I’m fine, Courf. Just tired.” He even tries to pair it with a smile, but it doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. Now that Courfeyrac is looking, he can see the dark circles under his eyes, the pale skin, the way Enjolras is holding himself, it all screams that something isn’t right with his friend. 

“Are you sure? Combeferre is cooking tonight, if you wanted to come over. His mom sent him naan.” Really, Courfeyrac is showing his full hand. Enjolras loves all bread, but Combeferre’s mom’s naan is his absolute _favorite_ thing in the world. 

“I have a lot of work,” Enjolras says. Courfeyrac knows that’s Enjolras speak for “I am going through a Thing but I’m not ready to talk”, and that only makes him want to insist more. Because if it’s what Courfeyrac thinks it is (that Enjolras misses Grantaire), then being alone seems like it would hurt more than help. 

“You told me last week that you would kill a man for some of that naan,” Courfeyrac says, voice light. He nudges his friend a little. 

“I know… I just… I gotta go, Courf.” Courfeyrac has to force himself to step back when all he wants to do hold Enjolras close, hug him until Enjolras will tell him what is going on, to be able to fix whatever is going on. But he knows that if he crowds him now then he’ll lose the chance when Enjolras needs it enough to ask for it himself. 

“Okay. Text me when you’re home safe.” 

Enjolras nods, the corners of his lips just tilting upward. 

Courfeyrac matches it, as best as he can around the worry that’s squeezing his ribs tight.

:: ::

“Marius? I just got off shift. What’s up?” Combeferre asks, walking out of the hospital.

“It’s Enjolras. He’s super out of it, and I think he’s running a fever,” he says, voice quiet. “He says it’s just a cold, though.” 

“He’s not in lab like that, is he?” Combeferre asks, making a sharp turn back into the hospital. He knows how long this has been going on, and they need to start Enjolras on general antibiotics right away. 

“No. He’s waiting on some cells from me, so I keep telling him they aren’t ready,” Marius explains. “How long until you can come and get him?”

“Fifteen. I just have to get some antibiotics first, in case this turns out to be bacterial,” Combeferre says. “Is Courf around? You should call him, tell him to chill with Enjolras until I can get there.” 

“Okay. Call me if anything changes.” Combeferre forces his voice to be normal, because this is normal. Enjolras overworks himself, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with. 

(Why does Combeferre feel like the earth has stuttered below his feet?)

:: ::

“Couch. Now,” Courfeyrac orders, as soon as they get Enjolras back to his apartment. Enjolras hadn’t put up that much of a fight, but Combeferre doesn’t know how much of that is Enjolras being sick or if Courfeyrac had just gotten it out of the way first.

Courfeyrac efficiently gets Enjolras out of his coat and takes his bag before Enjolras can really process anything, and by the time Courfeyrac presses him down onto the couch, Enjolras accepts that he’s too tired to go through a full-fledged fight with Courfeyrac right now.

“I’m fine, fam,” Enjolras mumbles, which only gets a snort from Courfeyrac.

“I have never, in my entire life, heard you say fam,” is his only response, plopping himself down next to Enjolras. Gently, he brushes Enjolras’s sweaty curls back and presses the back of his palm to Enjolras’s forehead. He wants to recoil at the burning heat, but before he can say anything, Combeferre is there, medical supplies littering Enjolras’s small coffee table.

“Open up.” Courfeyrac can tell that Combeferre is in full-on doctor mode, and he knows that’s not a good sign. The only other time he’s heard Combeferre speak like that to Enjolras was the time Enjolras stumbled in after a protest, arm bleeding uncontrollably. That day had ended in an ER visit. 

Once the thermometer beeps, Enjolras scowls. 

“It’s probably fine, ‘Ferre. I feel fine,” Enjolras tries, but Combeferre is staring at the thermometer. 

“102.6. That’s not fine, Enjolras. Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks, but Enjolras’s lungs choose that moment to revolt, and he’s coughing. It’s deep, harsh, and wet, and Enjolras finds himself barely scraping in breaths between hacking coughs. 

But Courfeyrac’s hand is on his back, tracing comforting shapes, until Enjolras can finally breathe again.

“Okay. Take it easy, E.” Combeferre’s voice is significantly softer, gentler, his eyes warming when he sees just how miserable Enjolras is actually feeling. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Enjolras repeats, over and over, but Combeferre is ignoring him in favor of sorting through their medicine. “I’m not taking any cough syrup or Nyquil or anything. It makes me fall asleep.” 

“Enjolras, you’re exhausted. Please, just take what he gives you,” Courfeyrac urges. “Your work can wait until you’re better.” 

“I’m not sick,” Enjolras says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m… I’m being ridiculous.” 

“Come on, E. If you take the medicine, Combeferre will leave you alone to sleep or watch Parks and Rec or whatever it is you want to do right now.” 

Enjolras’s words are caught in his throat. All he wants is Grantaire and he misses him so much that he’s made himself feel this physically awful, but he can’t. He can’t be that selfish. 

But Enjolras knows how this goes. He can fight and fight as long as he wants, but Combeferre always wins. So he silently accepts the pills and the water, even drinking whatever syrup he’s been given, scrunching his nose at the godawful taste. 

In a matter of minutes, exhaustion covers Enjolras like a heavy blanket. 

“Come on, let’s get you into a bed,” Courfeyrac says, voice warm. Enjolras stumbles a little on his way up, but then his hands are around his stomach and he’s bolting.

Courfeyrac doesn’t catch up until Enjolras is already in front of the toilet, all of the medicine and water coming right back up. After that, it’s just bile and dry heaves. Enjolras feels tears at the corner of his eyes, his throat burning and his stomach cramping and twisting and it’s all so much. The colors are too bright against a color that’s too white and Courfeyrac’s voice is too loud and his grip on the bowl is too tight and the room is too cold.

Everything blurs the second hands are leaning him back against the bathtub, wiping at his mouth and flushing the toilet for him. Then the hands are back, one arm wrapping around his wrist and the other guiding Enjolras’s own arm around a shoulder and holding on. Then they’re moving.

Enjolras is passed out seconds after Courfeyrac manages to get him into his bed.

:: ::

When Enjolras pries his eyes apart, it’s dark. His head is pounding, his limbs are sore and heavy and numb and Enjolras doesn’t have the energy to ponder that level of contradiction. Slowly, Enjolras feels more and more, wishing with each second that he isn’t: his throat is as dry and painful that it hurts to breathe, much less swallow, his chest is tight and his stomach… his stomach is currently doing its best impression of Simone Biles’s floor routine.

When he manages to press his torso up, the room spins. Enjolras just sits there, forcing himself to breathe, to get his bearings. 

The bed is cold where it shouldn’t be, because Grantaire isn’t there. 

All Enjolras wants is to feel those warm arms wrap around his stomach and pull him back to bed, and he can imagine the tightness in all of his muscles melting away, can imagine Grantaire’s laughter warming the back of his neck.

Instead, Enjolras pulls himself to a standing position, and with the help of the dresser and the hallway, slowly lumbers back out to the living room. 

“Whoah there, E. Didn’t think you’d be up,” Feuilly says, his arm wrapping around Enjolras’s waist and helping him to the sofa. Enjolras doesn’t even protest, because the lack of objects to direct his stumbling past the threshold of the edge of the room had stumped his static-filled brained. 

“I don’t… I don’t feel good,” Enjolras croaks, once he’s squished between Feuilly and Courfeyrac on the couch.

In seconds, Combeferre is crouched in front of him, face creased. “E, where does it hurt?” 

“Stomach, chest, head,” Enjolras mumbles, not even protesting when Combeferre pops the thermometer back between his lips. It beeps quickly, and Enjolras winces at the noise.

“Enjolras… we should really get you to a doctor,” he says, and Enjolras immediately recoils.

“No. I can’t… cause of R,” Enjolras mumbles, shaking off Courfeyrac’s attempt to pull him closer. “He shoul’n worry ‘bout me. Hosp’l gonna call him.”

“Enjolras, we need to get your temperature down. And I don’t know if I can do it here.” Combeferre knows that being rational right now might not be the best tactic, but he has to try. 

“No. ‘M fine. No hospital,” Enjolras insists, even as he lets Courfeyrac pull him close. 

“Enjolras--” Courfeyrac says, but Enjolras just shakes his head.

“R has worked so hard, and I can’t… I can’t ruin this for him.” Enjolras pauses, unfocused eyes locking on Courfeyrac. “It hurts… I miss him so fucking much… it hurts but I can’t tell him.”

“Okay. Okay, E. We’re going to cool you down right now, okay?” 

They get Enjolras set up on the couch, cool cloths on his forehead and his chest. 

Enjolras is back to sleep in minutes.

:: ::

Enjolras wakes up abruptly, from blackness to harsh coughs that scrape from the bottom of his lungs. His eyes are wet by the time he’s done, and he raises his head from his arm, looking straight at Combeferre. His chest is burning, his ribs screaming at him. Everything feels fuzzy, and it takes more concentration than he has to pull a thought from its separate words.

“Are your ribs supposed to hurt when you cough?” he asks, though he isn’t sure if half of the words are actually words or mumbles. 

“No,” Combeferre says, his hand going to Enjolras’s cheek. “You’re burning. E, I know you don’t want to, but we have to get you to a doctor.” 

“You’re a doc’r,” Enjolras mumbles, but there are hands on his shoulders hauling him to a sitting position, helping him into a sweatshirt and shoving something onto his feet. “I’m fine. ‘M fine.” 

“Enjolras, you’re not. You need a hospital right now,” Combeferre tries, his hands resting on Enjolras’s knees. He doesn’t think the hospital has to call Grantaire, not if Enjolras can make decisions on his own, but even if they don’t, Grantaire deserves to know. So Combeferre will. 

Enjolras summons together all of his energy. “No.” He says the world as forcefully as he can, and Combeferre just sighs.

“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. Joly is… about a minute away, and if he gets here and says that you need to go, we’re going.” Combeferre’s voice is strained, held tight with worry, and Enjolras manages to reach an uncoordinated hand to rest on the one on his thigh.

“Deal,” Enjolras says, confident that Joly will understand that this is nothing. So he lets the hustle of whatever his friends are doing fade out, until there’s a new face in front of him and something in his mouth.

“104 and a half. We’re going.” That’s Joly’s voice, and then he’s pulling Enjolras to his feet. 

But when Enjolras puts his full weight on his feet, everything quiets to gray, and he feels himself fall. But there are arms, again, hauling him upright and putting his arm around their own shoulder.

“I’ve got him.” That’s Feuilly’s voice, and Enjolras recognizes that it’s his arm snaking around his waist. “All right, Enjolras. Think you can walk in a straight line for me?” 

“Of course,” Enjolras scoffs, but when Feuilly starts to move him forward everything pitches and spins. 

Enjolras knows something is really wrong with his body, can hear it when his muscles scream with every movement, can feel it in the deep fire setting his ribs ablaze, but it’s his heart that drops. He’s ruining something brilliant for Grantaire. 

“Grantaire…” Enjolras gets out, before the world spins too far out of focus to pull back.

:: ::

The next time Enjolras is aware of anything, he’s in a hospital bed with an IV, Courfeyrac’s hand running through his hair.

“Hey,” he gets out, voice grating against his throat. 

Courfeyrac startles, before his face softens. “Hey, you.” His voice is warm and soft and everything that is bright and pure about Courfeyrac, and Enjolras wants to cry. He doesn’t deserve this… this _tenderness_ , not when he knows that he’s going to completely destroy years of work for Grantaire. 

“What’s the verdict?” Enjolras mumbles, before his lungs decide to rebel and he’s coughing so much that he can barely suck a breath in before it’s scraping back out. 

“Combeferre and Joly are talking with the doctor right now. While you were out, they took you for some scans and tests. They’re… they’re probably going to admit you, at least until they can get your fever down,” Courfeyrac says, once Enjolras has stopped coughing. “Joly thinks it’s pneumonia.” 

“They can’t--” Enjolras starts, sitting up abruptly, but that only sets off another coughing fit. Courfeyrac’s arm is at his back, rubbing circles, and when it’s over, Enjolras relaxes (almost) involuntarily into his friend’s shoulder. Courfeyrac just shifts his arm so that he can play with Enjolras’s curls and keep him upright. 

“Combeferre is making sure that the hospital doesn’t have to call Grantaire, right now. But… he deserves to know, E.” Courfeyrac says, before placing a kiss into Enjolras’s sweaty curls. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll take care of it, and you just have to focus on getting better… okay?” 

“I can’t… he’s worked so hard for this, Courf, and I can’t… I can’t…” 

That’s when something snaps, and Enjolras is crying. He’s crying because he’s fucked up so badly, because everything hurts and aches and he feels terrible, and he’s crying because he misses Grantaire. All he wants is Grantaire, because Grantaire knows how much he hates hospitals but if he could just _hold_ Enjolras, if Enjolras could just smell his shampoo and lay against his chest, then maybe all of this will go away. But Grantaire is across a fucking ocean living his dream, and Enjolras can’t ruin that because he couldn’t handle being sick. 

“I miss him. I miss him so fucking much.” And then Enjolras is sobbing, and Courfeyrac is pulling him closer, resting Enjolras’s chin on his shoulder and pressing Enjolras’s chest to his own. Enjolras finds his arms clinging back just as tightly. 

“I know, I know, Enj. It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.” It’s a mantra that he repeats over and over, trying to get Enjolras to calm down, to try to take away some of what Enjolras is feeling. He can’t imagine the magnitude of this, because he’s miserable without R, miserable that Grantaire is probably going to come home, miserable because he’s this sick. 

Even worse, his sobbing is interspersed with coughs that seem to come from deep in Enjolras’s lungs, and Courfeyrac knows that Enjolras needs to calm down so that he doesn’t hurt himself or make himself sicker. 

Eventually, Enjolras goes limp against Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac just holds him, even when Joly and Combeferre and the doctor reenter. They take in the scene, but Courfeyrac just shoots Combeferre a look, and then Enjolras’s other best friend is on his other side, and when he reaches an arm out, Enjolras’s head snaps up, surprised. He tries to smile a little for Combeferre, but he doesn’t think it works. 

“I’m glad you’re awake,” the doctor says, sitting in the rolling chair in the small ER room and approaching Enjolras. Her voice is soft and gentle. “It looks like you’ve got a bad case of pneumonia, and a pretty high fever. We’re going to admit you for a few days, to get your fever in check and to monitor your lungs, because there’s a lot of fluid build-up right now.” 

Enjolras sucks in a breath quickly, and it’s quickly followed by another harsh coughing fit. 

“Do… do you have to? My fiancé... he’s in London right now… and…” Enjolras has to stop for breath in the middle of the sentence. 

“Enj,” Combeferre starts, and Enjolras knows that there’s no way he’s winning this fight. “You’re really sick, okay? And this is the best way to get you healthy again.” 

So Enjolras just nods, and then there’s the bustle of getting him situated in a new room, and then nurses are putting antibiotics into one IV and inserting another just for fluids because apparently he’s dehydrated, too. 

He knows there’s no sedation in there, because Combeferre knows how badly they react with Enjolras, but the fever reducer is strong enough that Enjolras finds himself falling into unconsciousness before he can even remind Combeferre to tell R that he shouldn’t come home.

:: ::

When Enjolras falls asleep, Courfeyrac immediately pulls Combeferre into the hall.

“He had a complete fucking breakdown, ‘Ferre. He’s been really missing Grantaire… how did we not notice? He’s our best friend and--” But Combeferre stops him with a kiss to his forehead. 

“We can’t think about that right now. I’m going to call him right now, though.”

“Combeferre, he really didn’t want--” Courfeyrac tries, but it’s half-hearted at best. His best friend is a complete wreck, and he knows that the solution is across the ocean. He knows that Enjolras needs Grantaire, as much as he doesn’t want to ask for him. “You’re right. He deserves to know, and E… he really needs him.” 

“Can you stay with E?” Combeferre’s face is etched with worry lines. “He’s really sick, and you know how bad he is at waking up alone in a hospital.” 

“Of course, and I think Feuilly’s staying with him, too. Let me know what Grantaire decides to do,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss to Combeferre’s lips. 

Combeferre knows exactly what Grantaire is going to do, which is why he already has the page to book the next direct flight from London to Logan open on his phone. Sighing, he takes Enjolras’s out of his pocket, and goes to find a nurse, because he knows Grantaire is going to have a battery of questions.

“Enjolras? I thought we said that--” Grantaire starts the second the call connects, and Combeferre has never wanted to have a phone conversation less than at this moment. 

“It’s Combeferre,” he says, and Grantaire inhales sharply. “Listen, don’t panic, but--”

“What happened?” Grantaire asks, and there’s a lot of scuffling on the line that means Grantaire is probably throwing some shit into a gym bag. 

“He’s going to be okay, Grantaire. He has a bad case of pneumonia so the hospital is admitting him to get his fever under control and monitor his lungs,” Combeferre explains, trying to use the calmest

“Shit, fuck, okay, I’m heading to the airport like now. Oh my god, oh my god,” Grantaire says, and Combeferre just winces when he hears a crash. 

“Calm down, R. He’s okay, Courfeyrac is with him right now and he’s sleeping. If you’re too busy, we can take care--”

“Like hell I’m too busy. I’m on my way,” Grantaire practically snarls. “How is he doing?” Grantaire sounds like a step away from a panic attack. 

“Grantaire, take a breath. I promise that he’s going to be okay, just focus on packing a bag and getting to the airport. I just sent a plane ticket to your phone for a flight that’s in three hours. Let me know who needs to be called to explain, and I’m sure they’ll take care of your art and the rest of your belongings.

“It’s fine. I never unpack my suitcase so it’s just the art stuff in the hotel room. I’m on my way to the airport right now. Can you… can you stay on the line?” Grantaire asks, his breath hitching. 

“Of course. Um, if you have any questions, there’s a nurse here. I think she has a few things she wants to tell you, as well,” Combeferre says, handing off the phone. The nurse quickly explains what treatment Enjolras has already been given and the specifics of what happened, and Grantaire asks her questions about Enjolras’s symptoms. In a few minutes, she’s passing the phone back to Combeferre, before heading into Enjolras’s room to check on him.

“Why didn’t you get him to a doctor sooner?” Grantaire asks, and Combeferre sighs. 

“We were going to take him yesterday, but he… he knew we would call, and he didn’t want to worry you,” Combeferre explains, not knowing how to word it any better. 

“Well, I’m pretty fucking worried now,” Grantaire spits, before taking a deep breath. “He’s an idiot. You should have called the minute you knew he was that sick, and I would have talked to him.” Grantaire sighs, and Combeferre doesn’t respond. “Look, I’m at security so I’m going to have to go. If Enjolras wakes up before the flight leaves, call me, okay?” 

“We will. Someone will be there waiting when you get to Logan. We’ll keep you updated,” Combeferre says, before hanging up. 

They’re both idiots, but Combeferre knows that all of the anger and worry is going to melt when they’re finally not an ocean apart. 

Because his best friend needs Grantaire right now, and if there’s one thing Combeferre knows, it’s that Grantaire is always going to be there for Enjolras.

:: ::

Enjolras wakes up again about two hours after Combeferre reenters the room. Combeferre had seen it coming, Enjolras’s constant turning and frequent coughing coming closer to waking the blond with each iteration.

“Hey, there,” Combeferre says, when Enjolras’s eyes crack open. In the time he’s been asleep, they’ve put him on an oxygen mask, because there’s so much fluid that it’s affecting the levels of oxygen across Enjolras’s body, and Enjolras bats at it with a clumsy hand. “Leave that on, E.” 

In response, Enjolras takes it off, before his head goes into his elbow and he’s harshly coughing, hunching over. 

“You might rest better if you’re laying down, mon ami,” Combeferre offers, when Enjolras moves the bed position from slightly elevated to something pretty much upright. 

“Can’t. Feels like ‘m drowning,” Enjolras mumbles. His breathing is labored, and Courfeyrac, frowning, puts the oxygen mask back on Enjolras. 

“We’re going to compromise here,” Courfeyrac says, lowering the bed so it’s halfway between upright and flat, and Enjolras just nods. “If you leave that on for at least fifteen more minutes, I’ll let you call Grantaire.” 

“Can’ call him… he’s working,” Enjolras mumbles, before his eyes snap open. “No, no. You called him?” 

“We had to, E. He needed to know,” Courfeyrac explains, but Enjolras has ripped off the mask, bolting upright. His head is in his hands and his breathing is even quicker and shallower than before.

“I fucked up, I fucked up,” Enjolras whispers, and then he’s crying for the second time that day and Courfeyrac has no idea what to do. At least he’s not angry at them, right?

“E, I need you to breathe, okay? Take some deep breaths with me,” Combeferre says, sitting on the bed in front of Enjolras and forcing his friend to meet his eyes. “There were only a few days left, and galleries have already claimed his paintings. You didn’t ruin anything, okay? Alright that’s it, there we go,” Combeferre encourages, as Enjolras manages to control his breathing as much as he can. 

Enjolras goes limp, and he lets Courfeyrac lay him back down, tucking the blankets around his friend. Then he’s dialing Grantaire’s number.

“Hey, Grantaire. I know you only have a few minutes until boarding, but he just woke up, and--” Courfeyrac pauses, listening to Grantaire on the other line. “Yeah, I’ll give you to him right now.” 

Enjolras rolls onto his side, and accepts the phone that Courfeyrac offers, before curling up into a ball and putting it next to his head, clumsily hitting the speaker button because he does not have the energy to hold it right now. 

Discretely, Combeferre and Courfeyrac exit the room, choosing to watch through the observation window.

“Hey,” Enjolras croaks, the oxygen mask pushed down to his neck. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes out, some part of his tightly coiled insides relaxing because, yes, that’s Enjolras’s voice, and it means that he’s okay. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I swear, R. You don’t need to leave the tour for me,” Enjolras says, but then he’s coughing again, but his lungs can’t seem to expel anything. 

“It doesn’t matter. Not when you’re in the hospital, Enj,” Grantaire says. “You should have told me sooner.” His voice is so soft, so hurt, that Enjolras can’t help the tears that leak out from his eyes.

“I’m sorry, R. I’m sorry,” he says, trying to hide the shaking of his voice, but it doesn’t work. Grantaire knows that Enjolras is miserable and exhausted and sick, and this is a conversation they can have when Enjolras is better. Right now, he’s got to calm Enjolras down because he sounds wrecked. “Hey, did I tell you about this one lady I met in Paris?”

“No?” 

“Well, put that oxygen mask back on and buckle up…” Grantaire says. When he doesn’t hear any sign of movement on the other side of the call, he sighs. “I’m not telling the story until you put it back on.” And he waits until there’s shuffling, as Enjolras pulls it back on, before he continues. “Okay so I was walking around the tourist areas, and…” 

In a matter of two minutes, Grantaire hears that Enjolras’s breathing has evened out. 

Right before he boards, he gets a picture from Combeferre that’s Enjolras smiling in his sleep, curled around his phone. Despite the IVs and how Enjolras is skinny and pale save for the bruise-like circles under his eyes, it’s sweet enough that Grantaire thinks he can keep it together long enough to get to Enjolras and see for himself.

:: ::

Enjolras slips in and out of consciousness for the next eleven hours. After he wakes up the first time, even breathing hurts, and when he makes the mistake of telling Joly, and then there’s something new in his IV and he suddenly can’t seem to focus, to keep his eyes open for longer than half an hour.

Every time he wakes up, everything is numb enough that he can’t do much more than repeat the same conversations with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. 

(How are you? Grantaire is only x hours away. You should drink some water. No, you need to leave the mask on, until the antibiotics start kicking in and you can breathe better. Okay, that’s fine, you can go back to sleep.)

This time, when Enjolras wakes up, it’s different. It’s dark, and it’s just Courfeyrac in the room. 

“Hey, you. Just in time. Grantaire should be here any minute,” Courfeyrac greets, and Enjolras is hit with another astounding wave that’s 40% fever, 60% guilt. 

“He came,” is all Enjolras says. It feels like what little is left of his breath is knocked out of him. 

“Of course he did. Relax for a bit, okay? Combeferre is meeting him and bringing him straight up,” Courfeyrac says, his hands carding through Enjolras’s curls. 

“I really fucked up, Courf, didn’t I?” Enjolras’s voice is barely there, and instantly Courfeyrac is shifting to sit next to Enjolras on the bed, even as Enjolras curls further into himself. He’s on his side, so Courfeyrac just rubs Enjolras’s back for a few seconds before speaking.

“Enj, you got sick. That’s not your fault,” Courfeyrac says. “And, at the end of the day, R _chose_ to leave. Because he loves you, and you’re sick. There’s no way he wouldn’t come the second he knew. Could you take better care of yourself? Yes, but even Joly gets sick. You can’t blame yourself for this.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I ruined it for R,” Enjolras mumbles, and then he refuses to say another word. 

So Courfeyrac is just there, rubbing Enjolras’s back when he coughs, carding his fingers through his hair to try to get him to relax.

By the time Enjolras’s muscles have relaxed, and Courfeyrac is confident enough that Enjolras is okay, he looks up through the observation window and Grantaire is there, talking to Combeferre.

:: ::

“Hey, ‘Ferre,” Grantaire greets, letting Combeferre pull him into a hug. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s okay. Been sleeping, mostly,” Combeferre says as he leads Grantaire into the hospital. “You okay?”

“Not sure if my hands won’t stop shaking from sleep deprivation or anxiety or both,” Grantaire comments, ignoring the worried glance Combeferre throws his way. “He’s actually been sleeping?” 

“Yeah. He’s been in a lot of pain so they gave him something to help and it’s been knocking him out.” Combeferre says, hitting the right elevator button. “He’s… he’s missed you, Grantaire.” 

“But he didn’t want me to come.” Grantaire’s voice is hoarse, and he pulls at his hair just a little. 

“It’s not that, R, it’s not.” Combeferre has to pause to swipe Grantaire into the wing, and he doesn’t speak again until they’re right outside of his room. “He wants to see you. He just doesn’t want to be the reason you left that kind of opportunity.” 

“Can I go in?” Grantaire asks, and he feels the words catch in his throat, because he looks and he sees Enjolras. He’s curled up in a way that only happens when Enjolras has really bad days, Courfeyrac rubbing his back and being so amazingly Courfeyrac in every way. 

“Yeah. He’s awake,” Combeferre says, and then Grantaire is looking up, and Courfeyrac looks up, too. He’s tired, eyes rimmed with red, but he smiles because he’s Courfeyrac and Grantaire somehow manages to return it before he’s in the room and Courfeyrac isn’t, anymore. 

“Enjolras?” he asks, and suddenly Enjolras is upright, and Grantaire can see everything. He sees the oxygen mask dominating his face, he sees how Enjolras’s cheekbones, collarbones are more prominent, can see the dark circles under his eyes and the spots of color on his cheeks and before he can think he’s there, scooping Enjolras into his arms. 

And then Enjolras starts crying. 

Grantaire pulls him closer, one hand on his back, one on his head, guiding Enjolras’s head to his shoulder. He lets Enjolras cry himself out, because he _knows_ that Enjolras is 400 kinds of miserable, if everything that Combeferre has told him is true. He’s sick and hurting and stressed and exhausted and, apparently, guilty, and because Grantaire had gone off the grid he hadn’t been there. 

Enjolras needed him and he wasn’t there. 

Grantaire doesn’t know how to deal with that, but he knows that he can’t right now. Not when Enjolras is falling apart right in front of him and he needs Grantaire. 

He’s still letting him be there, so Grantaire _will_ be there for him. 

And when Enjolras finally stops, Grantaire doesn’t let go. 

“Hey, there. What’s going on?” Grantaire mumbles into Enjolras’s curls, somehow messier and greasier than his own. 

“I missed you,” Enjolras says back, and then Grantaire is pulling away just enough that he can look Enjolras in the eyes. Without saying anything, Grantaire kisses Enjolras’s forehead, forcing himself not to frown at the heat, and helps Enjolras to lay back down, this time against his chest. 

“I missed you, too,” Grantaire whispers, hand starting to play with Enjolras’s curls. “We can talk more later--you should get some rest.” 

Enjolras frowns, and before he knows it he’s coughing harshly against Grantaire’s chest. For the first time, Grantaire can hear just how deep and crackling the coughing is, and he just tightens his grip in response. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras mumbles when he’s done, but Grantaire just shushes him. “I don’t wanna get you sick.” But Grantaire just chuckles.

“Too bad. I’m not going anywhere,” Grantaire promises, pressing another kiss to Enjolras’s forehead. “I’m right here, Enj.” 

“Love you,” Enjolras gets out, and Grantaire feels Enjolras relax against him, just like they’re at home in their bed after a night in with a bottle of wine. But they’re not, because Enjolras is really sick and there’s nothing that Grantaire can do to fix it. 

But that’s not going to stop him from trying to help, from being there and holding Enjolras so that he can finally _rest_ , to make him feel a little less miserable. That’s what he signed up for when he dropped to one knee, and when he asked Enjolras out, and when he first decided that the incredible human in his arms was going to do something great someday. 

“I love you, too.” 

Grantaire thinks about how the sun was setting in London when he left, and how it’s just starting to rise over Boston, now. He thinks about Saturday nights on the roof of their apartment building, about lazy Sunday mornings, and he just exhales. Then takes another breath. 

On top of him, eyes finally closed, Enjolras does the same. Grantaire looks down.

Enjolras smiles, just a little bit. 

And Grantaire does the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please, please let me know what you think, and let me know what to write next in a comment or @ thoseunheard on tumblr.


End file.
